Sonder
by Prussium
Summary: Lovesick police officer Alfred Jones is out on a mission to chase a group of notorious art thieves. Along the way, he retraces the day he met his mysterious lover and comes across a crucial decision that will take his loyalties to the test. (USUK, 1920's human AU)


**_Sonder_**_  
__n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness_

* * *

**April 19, 1926 **

I always think of my life as a novel – I, the protagonist, and the rest of the world the supporting characters. Every day is a new page. Remarkable encounters open new chapters, introducing new characters. Strangers surround every scene, extraordinary and mundane alike.

This chapter is about a very special man who was just another stranger four months ago.

Our first encounter was in this museum.

"Over there!"

Footsteps harmonize with the blaring sirens outside the building, sharp and firm against smooth marble. Faint light streams through the glass windows, guiding us amid the cold and empty darkness of the hallways as we dart with our guns in hand, full attention to the high-class bandits we chase.

Tonight, we end the most notorious museum heists of the decade.

* * *

As I was saying, he and I met in this museum. I was off-duty that day and I let my feet take me places, until they brought me here, which incidentally became the best decision I made in a long time. I had been fascinated with the arts even before I could walk, but I never had the opportunity to pursue it as a profession. My mother would scoff each time I brought it up and my father would say I could do much better than that. Be part of the police force, for instance. To protect and to serve America.

The museum had just opened that month and attracted more visitors from all around the world each week. He was part of the growing statistic. He started the small talk; I fell at first sight. He was telling me something about the portrait facing us, but I was too busy studying his face.

He had vivid green eyes, a shade that reminds you of eternal spring. His blond hair was a bit fairer than mine, slicked back as if to boast those bushy eyebrows underneath. His black suit was tailored to fit his graceful, arching movements. He stood there, a walking sculpture, taking a trip to see his fellow masterpieces.

He was _that_ beautiful.

After a while, he introduced himself as Arthur, and when it was my turn to speak, it took me a second to recall my name. What a blissful coincidence that he also went alone, and so we agreed to be each other's company, at least until the end of the day.

I listened while he talked about the works on display with such eloquence and knowledge, one could easily believe that he belonged to another class. He talked about Claude Monet and the other famous painters as if he knew them personally, and discussed the distinction between Impressionism and Expressionism. He could tell which paintings were authentic and which were copies; he had a great eye for art. There came a time when I reached this level of curiosity and asked what he did for a living, if he worked in the art world. He smiled and said he was simply an enthusiast.

Before we parted, he asked if I wanted to have tea some time. With shivering hands, I gave him my phone number. He told me he would be going in and out of town frequently, so he didn't bother to give me his number in return. But he promised he would call me soon. That night, he was the only one I could think about.

I waited. Waited and waited and waited for his call, his promise in endless echoes. I slept beside the telephone; I almost convinced myself to stay at home in fear he might call while I was away. My paranoia finally ended when I received his call Thursday night. I made sure he was my only appointment that weekend.

He caught me off guard when we didn't have tea as suggested. Instead, he brought me to a speakeasy.

People said that we had come to a new age as we entered the decade. The country's post-war recovery was astounding. The economy boomed all the way from Wall Street, enticing more investors from everywhere – breaking records every now and then, setting stocks at an all-time high, so did people's confidence. The young and ambitious began flocking to cities in pursuit of the American Dream. The sky was the limit.

There we were at the wild, clandestine party, contentedly taking part in this new era. Arthur and I drank and danced to our heart's content, jazz music filling our ears. He took me by the hand and we joined the couples dancing the Charleston. The flappers kept approaching us with their breathtaking smiles and sparkly dresses and jewelry, offering smoke, drinks, and company. And so we laughed, smoked, and drank some more. But it turned out that they were trying to keep me and Arthur apart.

I personally admired this new wave of independent women. They wore short hair and outfits, smoked, and knew how to assert themselves. Yet another breakthrough, indeed. If my dear old mother had a daughter, she would surely bid her early trip to death.

Minutes of passive-aggressive prodding eventually won us over. He and I took the ladies to the dance floor and did a little flirting as they wished. I couldn't put a finger on the right adjectives that would describe them perfectly. Charming, endearing, enigmatic, splendid… What a shame, I wasn't what they were looking for. I might have the biological sufficiency, but deep inside, I was otherwise. The least I could do was to be a good dance partner.

After Arthur and I were together again, we laughed to ourselves and bantered about how we were compatible with the ladies we danced with. The banter led us to secure the privacy of a bathroom when it was only the two of us. We were intoxicated, sweaty, and flighty. He pushed me against the wall and shoved his mouth onto mine. He introduced a new choreography, and I kept up with the rhythm. Our hands explored each other, unbuttoning shirts and unzipping pants. We made out senselessly until we were disrupted by a furious pounding outside the door.

Everyone else in this great country felt like nothing could go wrong. Arthur and I were part of this bigger story outside my own. Stories of our generation's folly would be written down in textbooks and people would look at us as the decadent past. History. They would watch it from afar; I lived it.

What a time to be alive.

We met more frequently. Just one phone call and I would rush out the door to see him. He took me to more parties, grander and quirkier, one after the other. We never went to the same place twice. Despite our infinite list of differences, Arthur and I found our common denominator: loving the thrill and risk of getting caught in the middle of our private business, if you know what I mean.

I was fully aware that going to these places could get me fired from my job. All it would take was a raid and I would say goodbye to my license. But it didn't matter.

All my weekends were for him alone. We fucked at every party we attended, because that became the goal eventually. We scouted the area to find somewhere other than the bathroom, because we felt adventurous: inside coatrooms, under abandoned tables in dark corners, at the back stages, under the webby stages. I learned to kiss in different angles, softly and quietly. We made out in different volumes and intensities, because apparently, the decade wasn't the only one that knew how to roar.

We couldn't take our hands off each other. Skin to skin, warmth and sweat. I loved the way he would tell me how much he wanted me, or whisper sweet nothings in my ear as if they were true, as if he meant them. I loved the way my touches made him shudder. I would smile at him and his eyes would gleam with such mystery. We screwed everywhere, but always ended in my apartment. And there, we would get lost with each other for hours.

But one night, I decided that I wanted to take it to a different level. I wanted something more than just sex. I wanted to know what was underneath the physical. As we lay in my bed, in between kissing and touching, I would ask in the hope of him opening up to me.

I wanted to know about his business in the city, even just the subtlest details. Why was he here? How long would he be staying? He never really told me anything. Of all the parties we attended, he never introduced me to anyone. Everyone knew it was impossible to have an access to those places without knowing the right people.

I tried narrowing him down, but my efforts were futile. I told him about my childhood and family, and every time he felt like I was getting him to do the same, there was suddenly something else to talk about. Or something to do. He would pull me closer and let our bodies do the talking.

Maybe he needed more time to open up. Maybe I hadn't earned his trust just yet.

* * *

My saddest mornings are when I woke up alone, with only his handwritten note on the nightstand.

_See you tonight, _today's letter said.

An hour ago, I sat in bed waiting for the final minutes to tick by before I would meet him for dinner. At least, we considered a different pace. Only dinners for now, for me and my mysterious paramour. Taking it slowly and surely was the best way to go.

But before the unforgiving clock's long arm stroke 12, I received a call for a mission. It was of a high-level urgency that left no room for excuses. Immediately, I was summoned to the headquarters to carry out my duties.

I felt miserable with this sudden change of plans. There were no other means of telling my regrets about the cancellation. As I stepped inside my car, I tried not to think of him all by himself, waiting in vain...

"There!"

"Wh-?"

"Goddammit, Jones! Have you left your brains at home?"

The team seems to notice that the mission is not my focus, but only the chief points it out. I eagerly show my renewed attentiveness.

Eyes on the targets, mind back to the mission.

These outlaws have it grand for a long time now. According to our investigations, they are an underground association that is the mastermind of the most controversial organized crimes over the past two years. With white masks and fedoras as their trade mark, these felons are infamous for plundering the country's biggest banks and museums' most valuable art and jewel collections. They move from city to city, one break-in after the other. Their random targets resulted in a higher level of security in these establishments. Yet, they are still able to roam around the country freely. Most of the time, burglar alarms track no intrusions at night, only for the authorities to discover the crime first thing next morning.

They escape without a sound, leaving no traces of identity other than their peculiar disguises. We have continually tried to pinpoint every possibility to capture them. Their common targets, modus operandi, possible alliances…

The months of extensive investigations and deductions finally lead us here to the Grand Chase, the mission that is supposed to write this case as history, once and for all.

The team is instructed to disperse into four groups for each wing: the North, South, East, and West. There are at least fifteen of them. Although the entire area is surrounded by police force, we are quite skeptical about the outcome. Having the skills of long-range ninja fighters, they won't give you the chance to come near them. Even if stripped of weapons, they can fight with ease. Their bodies are their instant weapons. No wonder why they managed to run around for two years.

I am close to cornering one of them after countless flights of stairs and deadly catwalks in between marble sculptures and porcelain jars. This one I'm chasing doesn't use his gun as much as the others, but successfully manages to keep his pace a hundred feet in advance.

I can almost declare checkmate as we find ourselves running towards a dead end – no doors to open, no alleys to invade – but before I can get my hands on him, he finds a nearby window to shoot and jumps out. The window leads him to the rooftop of the other wing. My reflexes take over; I can't let him get away. Through haphazard luck, I shoot him in the ankle, slowing him down as I go after him.

But the incapacitated felon is unstoppable. When he knows that I have the upper hand in running, he puts up a fight like he's not injured at all. With unwavering speed and precision, he attacks without a skipping a beat, his movements unhindered by his pain. It takes me a while to read the pattern while returning the assaults, but his injury does me the favor of crippling him. He grimaces in muffled pain as I manage to topple him to the floor.

He freezes in his spot, staring at the gun aimed at his forehead. If he dares to make another move, it will be the end for him.

Slowly, I approach him, looming nearer until we are face to face. I keep eye contact as I take off his mask, a white Venetian like the rest of his comrades possess. I look closely into his eyes, finding no fear or regret, only a familiar glint. A familiar shade.

My mind races with a thousand thoughts and I forget how to speak.

"A-Arthur?" I ask. My face is probably whiter than his mask.

I am at a loss, engulfed by a huge, gray cloud of confusion. I cannot be sure of anything anymore—not even his name. All I only process is that I am pointing a gun at someone I love.

Memories of him flash through my mind like movie scenes. The gallery visit. The phone calls. The parties. Our plans for tonight.

"Y-you… You're one of _them_ all along?"

The condescending tone makes him smirk. He tips his hat. "You are rather slow, aren't you?"

I respond with a stiff, angry stance, not lowering my gun. "But why?"

"Do you have some time to spare and hear me out?" he asks. "You always wanted to know my story, don't you?"

I don't realize how much I've been shaking until I put my gun down.

He takes the precaution of sitting up, just in case I change my mind. "I grew up in a small town in England, youngest among the four siblings. My family doesn't have much and things got worse when the war broke out. Our livelihood was severely affected, my father was killed, and my mother fell ill. My brothers and I don't have much choice but to find any source of living or we'll starve to death."

I take some time to absorb what he's trying to tell me. "So that was how you joined the black market?"

He hesitates for a second. "It was my chance to make a lot of money. I didn't care if it was against the law," he says. "The promise of a better life sounded so tempting, I just hopped on the ship, let it take me across the Atlantic, and smuggled goods. I knew I would be back someday."

"What about your brothers?"

"They joined too, but they didn't have the same luck. They were jailed, Mother told me in a letter. Now, I regularly send her a huge sum of money so she can live."

Silence falls and he studies my face, tracing the hint of doubt. "You don't have to believe me if you don't want to."

I keep my lips pursed.

"The end justifies the means, Alfred."

"No, it doesn't," I reply, looking away. I simply don't acknowledge the idea.

"Do you think I would do this if I had a choice?" he asks. "She's dying."

He fixes his gaze on me and I see something in his eyes that I've never seen before: pure, genuine desperation that no liar can portray. I feel like I'm looking straight to his bare soul, seeing through those dilated pupils.

_Don't look at me like that. _

"We had an agreement among us," he says, fiddling with the hem of his bleeding slacks. "Reach the quota and you'll be sent home with your commission. I'm almost there, Alfred. Almost there. I'll be home, bail my brothers out, and my mother will get proper treatment that she deserves…" He goes on with a very optimistic tone, almost delirious.

I take my silence as a retreat inside my mind to think about what he's telling me. I want to believe that everything he's saying is true. Some people say that the greatest acts of man are done in the name of love, and here is a living testament. Arthur has endured and risked everything for his family to live, what a selfless thing to do. If I turn him in, his family may not hear from him again. If this leads to the loss of his mother, it will be something that I will take with me to my grave.

But what's the worst of it all is that he knows my soft heart like the back of his hand.

I get to my feet and secure the gun in my hand.

He is mesmerized, still processing my next move.

Gunpoint ready, three bullets escape to the night sky.

"Go."

With just one word, I cast away the desperate light in his eyes.

He reaches for me and his lips meet mine, ardently, like how we begin our promiscuous nights. He kisses me with such passion that I already regret my decision of setting him free. We linger like that for a moment.

Just when he's about to pull away, I grab him by the collar. "If I'll ever see you again, I won't let you go. That's a promise."

He smiles.

"Thank you, Alfred," he whispers in a soft, fragile tone.

He gives me one last kiss before retreating into the shadows.

Under the moonlight, I watch another character leave his mark and exit my life. He is a thief and I am an open window, granting his escape. This will be his last appearance in my story, it seems.

His story continues, opening another chapter without me. I wonder how much my character played in it. Did I change his life? Did I mean anything to him? Or was I just another incidental character on the background?

But no matter what, I love him.

I love him, anyway.

Someday, people will hear about this particular chapter of my life, about a thief who stole my heart and would never give it back.

_Until then, my love._

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

'_Sonder' is a newly-created word that has not yet been recognized by any official authority in the English language. The definition above was taken from dictionaryofobscuresorrows. com._

_This long overdue one-shot goes to __**Lorxene**__, for winning the guessing game in my other fic _Paint me to life_. She originally requested for a chase scene between an officer Alfred F. Jones and a wanted criminal Arthur Kirkland set in the Wild West, though I resorted into the Jazz Age. ^_^" I hope this nonsense still fits the bill. _

_By the way, Alfred's insight about love is based on Aphrodite's quote in _The Lost Hero_. It says, "Love is the most powerful motivator in the world. It spurs mortals into greatness. Their noblest and bravest acts are done for love." For me, that is the most spot-on definition for love, therefore my personal favorite. _

_Reviews are dandy. Thanks for reading!_


End file.
